Crunch Time

pamphlets for televisions, cameras, and laptops that Kris either had or was interested in. Mother was a very fat file. Puzzled, I saw it contained numerous letters to and from an insurance company, police reports, and newspaper clippings. On one police report, Kris’s neat handwriting had penned Jackass.

Police reports? Jackass?

It was ten to one. I didn’t have a handheld scanner, so I stuffed the Mother file into my bag. This would warrant further study, and if I could get out of there quickly, I’d be able to peruse it at my leisure . . . provided Kris didn’t notice the file was gone.

The Miscellaneous file was intriguing because it did not, in fact, contain miscellaneous clippings, letters, and other papers that one would expect. Instead it contained neatly penned charts with numbers in columns. Each line on the charts contained dates, with numbers and initials.

Well, I thought as I crammed this file into my bag, too, in for a penny, in for a pound. Penny Woolworth probably wouldn’t appreciate that saying, but—

“He’s coming!” she screamed. “Get out!”

She didn’t have to tell me twice. I straightened the now loosely fitting files, closed all the drawers, and relocked the cabinet. Unfortunately, the piece of tape that had held the key in place was clogged with clay particles, so I had to take a moment to find a new roll and retape the key behind the Santeria mask. My hands shook as I replaced it on the wall.

I heard the Maserati’s characteristic vroom-vroom. I swallowed hard and looked around the study. My mother had always checked the trash when she returned from shopping, sure that evidence of my misdeeds would have been chucked in there. Penny said she hadn’t cleaned in here yet, so I stuck the used bit of tape in my pocket, emptied Kris’s small garbage can into my canvas tote, and skedaddled. Running back down the hill, despite slipping through patches of snow, proved easier than trotting up. Nevertheless, I was still huffing and puffing when I arrived at the van.

A diamond-studded chandelier, some stolen files, and another person’s garbage. Not bad for a day’s haul.

Five minutes later, still slightly out of breath and with my heart ceaselessly pounding, I piloted the van through the Flicker Ridge exit and called Boyd. This alerting him to my every arrival and departure was definitely cramping my style.

“Your husband has a lot of questions for you,” he said.

I cleared my throat. There was no way I could tell Boyd what I had just done. Instead, I said, “Did they get the chandelier out okay?”

“Yeah. I told Yolanda and Ferdinanda they had to stay in the dining room while some sensitive police materials were being moved. Tom’s guys brought in a large cardboard box and took the chandelier away in it. Tom still doesn’t know how he’s going to structure the search warrant for the fix-it shop.”

“Well,” I said dismissively, “I’m not a lawyer.”

Boyd chuckled. “Oh, don’t we know that! Still, Tom wants you to stay home until we go to the Bertrams’ place together.”

I sighed. I had plenty of things to look at, plus soup to make. So this was a manageable constraint.

At the house, I waved to Yolanda and Ferdinanda. The two of them were sitting in the living room with a plate of cookies and cups of coffee. Boyd followed me through the door, then closed and locked it. He looked suspiciously at my canvas bag, but I kept the handles well tucked under my arm. Ferdinanda fussed so much over the fact that I hadn’t had lunch that I almost lost my temper. But instead I placed a cookie in my mouth and thanked her for her concern.

Yolanda looked tired. The burns on her bandaged legs still made movement difficult for her, and standing was also a challenge.

“I want a bath,” she said ruefully, “but, Goldy, what about the soup? Do you want me to—”

“What are you complaining about?” Ferdinanda said, chiding her. “Bath? Bath?” She dismissed this with a wave. “When I was a sniper in Castro’s army, up in the jungle? We only got to wash in streams.”

“Goldy,” said Yolanda, ignoring Ferdinanda, “I want to start on the soup. I mean, if you do.”

I glanced ostentatiously at my watch. “Why don’t you have that bath now? You look exhausted.”

“I had a restless night.”

“You don’t have to cook,” I said.

“No,” she replied stubbornly, “I want to.”

“Tell you what,” I said as I clutched the bag tightly to me. “Can we talk in the kitchen, just the two of us?”

She looked downcast, but followed me. I carefully closed the kitchen door.

I said, “Ernest had already begun investigating Kris.”

She immediately looked away. “Oh, God—”

“Yolanda, please. Are you sure that Ernest never said anything about Kris? Or about finding something in Kris’s house?”

Yolanda again began to tear up. “Ernest did tell me he was looking at Kris. I . . . didn’t want to tell Tom, because . . . I was afraid,” she whispered.

“Of Kris?”

“Yes, of course.” Her voice was still low, as if she were sure Kris could hear her. “But also, Tom was so suspicious of me. Like he didn’t believe me.”

“In a murder investigation, Tom has to suspect everybody. So, did Ernest find anything at Kris’s place?”

“He had a lead. That was all he told me.”

“Is there anything else you need to tell me?”

“Ferdinanda told me she informed you that Humberto had hired me to spy and paid me the seventeen thou that went up in smoke. I never did any spying. I loved Ernest.”

“I know. And Tom knows.”

Yolanda shook her head. “We never should have stayed here.”

“No, no, don’t say that.” I put down my bag. “You may feel crazy now, but you’re going to be fine. Look, I went through this breaking-up thing with my ex. In spades. Come on, give me a hug.” She obliged, and then I pulled away. “Tell you what. Could you go back out to the living room and tell Boyd what you just told me, about Ernest and Kris? Try to remember details. Then ask him to call Tom.”

She nodded her assent, turned away quickly, and pushed through the kitchen door.

I tried to focus. When Yolanda had arrived at the house, she had not told me the whole truth. She had been afraid. And given my history, I didn’t blame her.

In the living room, I could hear Boyd on his cell phone. I stared at our landline, which was blinking. I pushed the button for voice mail and was told I had one message.

“Oh, Goldy, thank God your machine picked up!” SallyAnn Bertram’s breathless voice announced. “I don’t have your cell number, or if I do, I can’t find it. When is that cleaning lady coming over? I can’t remember, and I can’t find my calendar, and when I started tidying up, I realized that there was way too much for me to . . . well, actually, I feel overwhelmed. John promised he’d be home early, but he just called and said he thought we needed some more propane, plus he’s borrowing a grill from somebody—” The machine cut her off. She’d called an hour ago.

When was Penny due at the Bertrams’ place? In my current mental state, I could not remember. It seemed to me she’d indicated she was going straight from Kris’s house. My watch said half past one. I did not dare call her cell, in case Kris was nearby and saw the incoming number. If I used Boyd’s cell, Penny might answer. Even though she blamed the Furman County Sheriff’s Department for all her husband’s woes, with her husband getting out of jail the next day, wouldn’t she pick up?

I was worried about her. That trumped everything.

I picked up my bag and found Boyd back in the living room. He was off the phone. Yolanda and Ferdinanda had retreated to the dining room.

“May I borrow your cell, Sergeant?”

“What happened to yours?”

“Just—please?”